Of Moths and Flames
by Hazelnutkiss41
Summary: My take on how Spock and Nyota got together. A prequel for my other stories, as well as the revised version of my poetry experiment. Yes, this one will continue.
1. Chapter 1: Office Hours

**Disclaimer:** The story and original characters are mine, but the ST: 2009 characters are not. Let's consider this an origin fic for how Spock and Nyota got together. I make no profit from this writing exercise.

**Of Moths and Flames**

**Chapter One: Office Hours**

When I was a kid

The other kids thought

I was crazy because

I loved going to school.

They didn't understand

How much I loved

Learning something new

Testing myself,

Surpassing whatever I achieved

The previous day

Now, I'm here

At Starfleet Academy

It's the greatest opportunity

I'll ever have

To push myself

To set new goals

And dream new dreams

Of meeting people

Going places

Bridging worlds

With the clarity of my words

There's no time for distractions

Like the one I sense

I'm caught up in now

I thought I had all

The perfect comeback lines

Excellent armor

Against a sexy smile

From a cadet or a townie

I wield words

Like weapons

At the guys who try

To distract me

But no one told me

This could happen

No one warned me

My heart could be taken

Like this

He didn't say anything special

He didn't smile a dazzling smile

His eyes didn't sparkle

As he made senseless small talk

Instead

He stole my heart

From the front of the lecture hall

With the sound of his voice

Where others heard a monotone

I heard a melody

Where others saw ice

In his intense gaze

I saw quiet fire

And wondered

If there was heat

In his touch as well

Morning comes

To my eyes

And I can't wait to get to class

Just so I can be

In the same room with him

It doesn't matter

That he'll never notice me

I see him

Afternoon brings me

Back for more

Office hours

My questions are real

But it gives me an excuse

To see him

To watch his lips

As he pronounces

The words

For me

Then I pronounce them

He goes completely still

Listening only to me

Success

I've managed to command

His attention

For one moment in time

Such a small thing

Really

It hardly compares

To what my heart wants

He's my teacher

Off limits

Regulations and all

Forbidden

Lesson over

Time to go

I walk back

To my dorm

Taking the long way

So I can daydream

About what I wish I could have

Writing poetry was a hobby that I picked up from my step-father. When Khalil had something on his mind, when something was churning his gut into knots, he wrote about it. Poems were his weapon of choice. It suited me just fine, too. I was nowhere near as good as he was, though. He wrote in more than thirty languages, including Klingon. I wasn't able write in that language yet, but someday I would be. But I was able to do something he couldn't do: I could write poetry in Vulcan.

The how and why I was able to do that was really pathetic. I, Nyota Uhura, fearless interpreter, had developed a ridiculous crush on one of my instructors, specifically, Commander Spock. Sometimes, after masochistically dragging myself to his scheduled office hours just so I could look at him, I went back to my dorm room and wrote poetry. One day, I got it into my head that my "yearnings," as Khalil would have called the poems I was writing, might sound better if they were written in Vulcan. Or maybe not better, but, I don't know, deeper? Might capture more of what I wished I could to say to Commander Spock if I said it in his native language?

The writing became an excuse to talk to him. I would write the whole poem in Standard first, or Swahili, if I was really feeling adventurous. Then, I'd struggle with the translation. The challenge was not just getting the words right, but capturing every nuance of meaning, squeezing every drop of emotion out even the most mundane words.

Once, I went to him with a question about a particular stanza I was working on:

Come to me

Come, taste my thoughts

Taste my joy

At being yours

Come,

Lick the sweet nectar

That pours forth

From my flower of life

It was very…satisfying to watch Commander Spock's face as he read the lines, to know that he was aware of what was going through my mind, even if he didn't know he was the one I was talking to. As usual, his face betrayed no emotion, no shock or discomfort.

"Cadet, why do you I wish to translate this poem into Vulcan?"

I decided to tell him, sort of. "It's an exercise I've made up for myself. You said that communication is more than just learning the words. I believe that we can learn an incredible amount about a culture from analyzing and imitating their literary styles. Even learning older forms of expression and comparing them to modern forms allows the reader to gain insight into the values of that culture. As a future Communications Specialist, shouldn't I understand and be able to duplicate as many literary forms as possible?"

The Commander was quiet as he considered what I'd said. He did not agree or disagree with me. "Why do you wish to compose poetry in a writing style that predates Surak's teachings? It is highly improbable that you would ever have an opportunity to display such a technique."

"There _is_ someone that I wish to display my talents to, Sir, a writer that I know very well. He writes poetry in many languages. I've been trying especially hard to perfect my technique in a language he is not skilled in. He cannot write in Vulcan, neither modern, nor pre-Surak forms."

The Commander was watching me as I spoke, his eyes intently focused on my face. Had I been less familiar with Vulcan culture, I might have mistaken his attention for something else. However, I knew better. He was simply giving me his full attention. His eyes darkened when I mentioned that the person I wanted to impress was a "he," just the slightest movement across his brow.

"And you have chosen to write erotic poetry to impress him, Cadet?" The Commander's eyes were still on me, intently. But there was something in them that I'd never noticed before. Was that protectiveness? How sweet. Not what I really wanted, but then again, it might be nice to have a big brother. Or a friend, if such a thing was possible with him.

"I'm not getting myself into something I shouldn't, Commander. Many writers create works of an erotic nature. I just saw it as an exercise. The writer I was speaking of is happily married, and he simply encouraged me to write from my heart. The subject matter was entirely my choice. And it has helped both my creativity and translation skills."

The Commander considered what I said. Then, he focused his thoughts on the lines in front of him. "May I please review what you have already written?" I showed him the PADD I kept my draft on. Slowly, he began reading the lines I'd written.

Unable to help it, I recited them aloud as he read. Just as slowly his eyes left the page and slowly crawled up to my face. When his eyes met mine, I could see it. There. The "quiet fire" I'd noticed before. I would have given anything to know what thoughts were attached to that kind of look. Still staring at me, he gave me the words that had eluded me, pronouncing each one carefully.

For once, his gaze was too intent for me. I focused on entering the words into the PADD. I completed the translation as he watched.

"Thank you, Commander. As always, your help is invaluable." I prepared to leave his office, another session of pathetically grasping at straws now over, but he stopped me.

"Cadet, please recite the poem once more, this time in Vulcan."

I did as I was told. He listened, his eyes still on mine. He nodded, satisfied, and softened his gaze. Whatever he was thinking before had passed.

Again, I thank you Commander."

He looked at me, this time thoughtful. "You are correct, Cadet Uhura. Literature does offer a window into the understanding of others. Perhaps I should consider writing poetry in Terran languages, as a way to enrich my own understanding of humanity. Your aural sensitivity is above what I have come to expect from my students. I am now discovering your sensitivity extends to word choice as well. You would make a fine instructor for an exploration of poetic forms. Would you be willing to assist me in this endeavor?"

I was speechless. Me help him learn something? The Commander was not known for making fanciful requests. If he was asking for my assistance, then he considered me adequate for preparing him for the task he'd set for himself.

"Of course, Commander, I'd be honored."

He checked his schedule, asked about mine, and set a date for our first poetry session.

Convinced that I was about to wake up from my surreal dream any second, I decided to leave before anything embarrassing could happen or be revealed. Then I remembered I should give him an assignment or something. Wasn't that what instructors did? That way, we'd at least, have something to discuss when we met for our first session.

"For our first session, write down your thoughts about the first time you met or noticed anyone in our current class."

It was the only thing I could think of on such short notice. Heavens, I was so pathetic.

A/N: Special shout-out to my Beta, Aashlee Elizabeth. Thanks for believing in romance.

.


	2. Chapter 2: First Lesson

**Chapter 2**

**.**

**.  
><strong>

"I researched several types of Terran poetry, and found that a free verse style was best suited to the task," Commander Spock began as he presented me with his assignment.

I nodded, much as I had seen him do when I presented my questions and assignments to him. It felt different to be on the other side of the desk, so to speak. I began reading his verses, finding myself doing a double-take as the meaning of his words filtered into by brain. I was not expecting what he turned in.

There she is

I see her every day

She is not

In any of my classes

But I have come

To recognize her

Silently, she moves across the campus plaza

Intent on reaching her destination

She ignores the others lounging on the grass

Those enjoying Earth's blue skies

Preferring to study inside the Language Lab

Where the sounds she hears

Are those of tongues

Not native to her own world

Such dedication she shows to her studies

Admirable

I cannot help but wonder

What it would be like

To interact with such a dedicated student?

Someone who truly

Applies herself to learning

More than just the words

Communication in earnest

Is not merely words

But nuances, gestures,

Inflections, expressions

Or lack thereof

(Since they say I have none)

Who is she?

"Have I performed the task you assigned adequately, Cadet Uhura?"

I felt caught by my own game. And yet, I also felt as if I'd found a beginning. There was no way the Commander would ever return my feelings, but maybe, just maybe, we could become friends?

"I see you have a sense of humor, Commander. I promise I won't tell anyone. This is about me, isn't it?"

"Your assignment specified that I was to write about the first time I encountered a member of our present class. You did not specify that I could not choose you, nor did you specify that the poem had to describe the first time I encountered the subject in a classroom setting. You are a member of our class, are you not?"

"I am."

"And this endeavor is not only an examination of poetic forms, but an exploration of ways to communicate, is it not?"

"It is." I was smiling by this time. The Commander was being friendly, in his own way.

"Vulcans have mastered their emotions, not eliminated them. My sense of humor is different from yours, but rest assured, it is present. Life would be joyless, illogical even, if sentient beings did not experience moments of humor. I believed you would feel less intimidated if I chose a familiar subject. You are certainly familiar to yourself. My recent research reminded me that humor is often used in many Terran cultures as a way to communicate a willingness to work together at a task. Was I mistaken?"

"You were not mistaken, Commander." I nodded. Even when attempting to be creative, he was logical.

Our poetry sessions continued throughout the rest of my second year.


	3. Chapter 3: What's It Gonna Be?

**Chapter 3**

**.**

**.  
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During my third year, I applied for and was offered the position of being his Teaching Assistant. Our poetry sessions evolved into lively, at times, heated debates. Figurative language was a sore spot for the Commander. And when I felt particularly strong about my position, my poetry became laced with idioms he had trouble deciphering. When he felt he was in the right, his poetic responses treaded on condescension. Though we debated frequently in print, had heated discussions via electronic messages, and at times, nearly argued in person, neither of us ever wished to abandon the sessions and the working relationship that had drawn us closer.

As we neared the end of the last semester of my third year, our poetry sessions had expanded to include song lyrics as viable forms of poetry. The merits, or lack thereof, were discussed, debated, and argued over. Bliss for a cadet like me, who had never been able to shake a school-girl crush. Spock, as I called him in the privacy of his apartment, always behaved like a perfect gentleman. But the looks he gave me as I read particular lines sometimes…were not so gentlemanly. Not brotherly anymore. Even his protectiveness, at times, appeared more like possessiveness. As if I was his somehow.

Tonight, we were reading another poem together. I didn't confess that it was one of mine, but I suspected he knew.

The day has ended  
>Night is falling<p>

The chirps and creaks

Of things small

And not so small

Fill the near-darkness  
>With sounds of life<p>

In the distance

I hear

The rumble of thunder

I see

The crack of lightening

Far away, coming closer

The rain will come soon

The spicy-sweet  
>Scent of his maleness<br>Drifts towards me  
>Seduces me<p>

Says to me

Come closer

I have never been able

To resist the pull

Of his eyes

And tonight

Is no different

The rain is not

The only thing

That will come this night

I too

Will come like the rain

Like the rain

Like the falling rain

The water

Will flow from me

Like the rain

By the soft light

Of the room  
>I gaze into his eyes<br>While he gazes into mine  
>Slowly<br>The space separating our lips  
>Grows smaller<p>

And smaller  
>Until it disappears<p>

Completely

The touch of his lips

Warmth and a taste

Uniquely his

His tongue parts my lips

Seeking

Finding

Slick wetness

Against slick wetness

Tasting

Teasing

And he feels  
>Mine on his<p>

Softly

The rain is falling  
>Against the window<p>

Softly

I feel his hands  
>On my body<p>

Shall I touch you here?  
>He asks<br>His voice is gentle

As are his hands

Or there?  
>What about here?<br>I say,  
>Placing his hands<br>Where I want them

Like this?  
>Yes...<br>You like this, don't you?  
>Yes...<br>May I kiss you again?  
>Yes...<br>And the shadows  
>From the candle flames<br>Dance on the wall  
>He kisses me again<p>

And soon I find myself moaning softly  
>May I do something else?<br>Like what?  
>Like make love to you?<br>Please do  
>And our shadows<br>Join the ones on the wall  
>While our rhythms<br>Compete with those  
>Of the rain<p>

.

.

Reading the poem was one thing. Reading the poem with Spock sitting that close to me was another thing altogether. My nerve broke. It wasn't a game anymore. I stood up abruptly from where I'd been sitting on his couch, and moved over to stand by the window.

"I can't do this anymore, Spock. I can't."

He didn't ask me what I was talking about. I heard him stand, but I refused to turn around and look. I didn't want to see his emotionless face. I also didn't want to see the emotions I'd learned he was very capable of showing, in his own ways. I knew I wouldn't enjoy seeing what would be there: pity.

"This poem is one that you wrote?"

"You know it is."

"Is this another exercise in poetic craftsmanship?"

"No." My voice was very small, too small to belong to me, the fearless translator.

"Is this an invitation, then, to contact of a physical nature?" Spock had moved from where he'd been sitting. The sound of his voice suggested he was very close to me. A heartbeat later, I could feel just how close he was. I could feel the heat from his breath on the back of my neck. Too close. He was too close.

"Nyota, you have not answered my question."

"Do I have to actually say it? Please, just move. You're too close to me. If I turn around now, I'm going to kiss you. I can't pretend anymore that all I feel for you is friendship."

"Then I suggest you stop pretending and acknowledge your feelings."

"And why would I do that?" It sounded childish, but the last thing I needed right then was encouragement to do something stupid.

From behind me, I felt him circle my waist with his arms. He pulled me close, close enough that I could feel his heart beating against my side. Although I had fantasized things like this far too often, it had never occurred to me that he might have been feeling similarly. He was Vulcan, after all, from a high status family. I knew there was a woman waiting for him back on his home planet. He rarely talked about her. He'd mentioned that they respected each other, but never much else. Did his being this close to me mean that respect was all they felt for each other? Did I have a chance with him then?

"If you acknowledge your feelings, it will present me with an opportunity to acknowledge my own for you." Spock spoke the words softly into my right ear, sending something down my spine that I could only describe as a shiver. I'd never felt anything like that in my life. I felt hot and cold all at the same time. Writing about how you imagine something would feel, and actually feeling it were two different things. Spock and I would definitely have to talk later. Too many thoughts, too many obstacles, too many what-ifs were on the path we were treading.

"Yes, it was an invitation to physical contact." And what was happening right now was definitely physical.

"And emotional contact as well?" His lips were tracing the curve of my ear, moving from the top of the curve and going lower. Soon he would reach my ear lobe. It was getting more and more difficult to think, but I understood the question. His assault on my ear was proof that he was definitely interested in getting very up close and personal. Asking about emotional contact meant something else. Vulcans didn't share their emotions lightly. It meant he wanted to share his deepest self with me. Not with her, with me. While I was thinking, Spock had reached my ear lobe, and was now nibbling his way towards my lips, gently turning me in his arms so that I faced him. He looked down at me, waiting to hear my answer.

"Yes, Spock, emotional contact as well," I whispered as I brought my arms up to embrace him. Heavens, it felt so good to finally be able to do that.

"Then I accept your invitation." Spock's lips met mine, as we kissed for the first time.


End file.
